


(dis)possession

by would_you_like_some_angst_with_that



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood, M/M, Rough Sex, Violence, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 18:09:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4359098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/would_you_like_some_angst_with_that/pseuds/would_you_like_some_angst_with_that
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angel gets jealous and possessive with Spike.<br/>Spike, for once, refuses to take his shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(dis)possession

**Author's Note:**

> Line that I used that's not mine, that's the writers': "There's no belonging or deserving anymore. You can take what you want, have what you want... but nothing is yours." (from 'Angel', Episode: 'Destiny')

Spike wakes up in Angel’s bed with blood running down his throat and down the back of his legs, in an incredible amount of pain, and with an overwhelming need to throw up.

 

Barely coherent, Spike lets out a noise and tries to raise himself up, but an immense weight on his back has him pinned to the bed. Beyond this, he can feel his insides ripping, the blood turning lubricant, each thrust forward inching him closer to retching. A hand grabs his hair and his head is pulled back so hard, his neck almost snaps.

 

 _Fucking_ —

 

is all he gets out before his mouth is stopped with tongue and teeth that tear and suffocate and oh god, he doesn’t remember it ever hurting this much, fuck fuck _fuck_ , it’s too much and it’s too goddamn early in the morning for this shit again, ow ow watch the throat, watch the _throat_ , you idi—

 

Spike wakes up a second time, still bleeding, still in pain, still sick, but face up and empty now. This time, when he lets out a groan, he’s met with brightness and silence—the early afternoon sun shining through the windows, Angel gone.

 

Spike slowly sits up, testing his body. He bends his fingers, legs, cricks his neck. He finally stands up and makes his way to the bathroom with difficulty.

 

This is the fourth morning this week that Spike has woken up to Angel fucking him broken and bloody. The first morning was almost enjoyable even, but after the second and the third times, the brutal wake-ups were becoming unbearable.

 

Spike steps in the tub, turns on the water to boiling and lets it wash over him, lets the pain ebb and flow, watches the blood run down his body and drain out.

Angel could be rough, but this was different. This was beyond hurt and anger and wanting to numb pain and intruding feelings. At first, he thought that maybe someone else had died. Maybe Connor, or Wesley, or oh god, it was her, wasn’t it - - -

 

His answer had been a broken jaw.

 

So it wasn’t that then.

 

The second morning, Spike asked Angel if it was because Nina didn’t put out or put out too much, you never knew with Angel these days really, and this time, he hadn’t been able to walk until the evening.

 

Guess the werewolf put out just fine.

 

Spike gets out of the shower and does a damage check. He runs his fingers over his cheeks, wincing, gingerly touching his nose. Turns his head, counts the bruises and marks that pepper his body, losing count when he gets to the twenties. He admires the way the blacks blend in with the purples, the way the purples turn into greens and blues, a real life rainbow he is, a real life ray of fucking broken, broken, broken, breaking light.

 

Who needs therapy when you can play ‘Wreck the Spike’ for free?

 

He shrugs on his shirt, buttons it with trembling fingers, his throat working to keep it down, just keep it _down_ , don’t do this, not now, not here, not in his bathroom, at least aim for the toi—

 

Back at the sink, Spike turns on the faucet and washes out his mouth. If he were to be completely honest with himself, he would admit that it wasn’t the pain that was unbearable. No, Spike had been a masochist long before he was turned demon, long before he turned poet and man and boy, was a masochist in the womb, the moment he took his first breath. And there was a sick satisfaction in these mornings, in seeing how much he could take, gritting his teeth at it all, letting himself be mangled and shattered, but never ruined, never destroyed. No, what was unbearable was Angel’s arrogance—the way he marked him, visibly, purposefully, in ways he knew couldn’t be hid. The way Angel dug his fingers into Spike’s hips, the way he shoved his tongue down Spike’s throat, the way he growled when Spike would let out involuntary moans and gasps. The way Angel would avoid Spike’s eyes in the afternoon meetings, avoid even talking to him on missions, simply and completely ignoring him, treating him like he was invisible, like he didn’t even exist.

 

And if he could chalk it up to one of Angel’s moods, then he could let it go, but this was different because Angel didn’t behave like this, _Angelus_ hadn’t behaved like this.

Well, actually, now that he thought of it, there was that one time. It had been when Darla had decided to “try out the new toy” as well and only managed to take off Spike’s shirt when Angelus had burst through the doors, furious, feral, angrier than even Darla had ever seen him. Angelus had rushed at Darla then, eyes _golden_ , fangs bared and he had ripped Spike away and had torn into her.

 

Darla won most of their fights, but this one she lost completely. She had left, limping, her dress bloody, cursing and screaming at Angelus, and he, not yet sated, had turned his anger towards the younger vampire.

 

That was the first and the last time that Darla had dared to touch Spike.

 

Spike takes the towel off the rack and wets it.

 

Let’s see. Everything had been fine, normal, they had had their usual fight, their usual mission, and then Angel had gone back to his office to sulk some more and Spike had gone into the city and had hit up a few bars, hit up a few girls, and then gone back. Still drunk, still restless, he had ended up sliding into Angel’s bed, feeling especially tender and in need of some company, even if it was a poor excuse of one. And Angel hadn’t woken up, hadn’t yelled at him to get out, and even so, he knew that the older vampire, as much as he denied it, loved waking up with Spike tangled in his sheets which were incredibly soft actually and everything for once was quiet and good and

 

then suddenly, everything was not quiet or good and the sheets were brown and Angel was clawing at him, deep gashes forming along his arms and back and Angel’s eyes were tawny, like they had been years ago.

 

Angel had never been this controlling, never this desperate, never this possessive. He had never _cared_ this much. It was almost like he was

 

…jealous?

Spike wipes his face off and drops the towel in the sink.

 

Oh. _Oh_.

 

He looks straight ahead at the wall, where the mirror should be and his eyes are hard, cold, and he’s smiling.

\---

 

That afternoon, Spike doesn’t leave after the meeting is over. He waits until the door’s been closed and folds his legs, head tilted, smirk plastered to his face. Angel’s looking down at a contract on his desk, staring at it a bit too hard to be reading it successfully.

 

_Meeting’s over, Spike. Get out._

 

A moment passes and Spike answers, casual.

 

_Couldn’t help noticing you seemed troubled today. What’s wrong? Want to talk about it?_

 

_Fuck you._

 

Angel doesn’t need to look up to know Spike’s eyes have turned icy, his smirk wider, but there’s no more humour in it, and his teeth are growing longer. He almost looks up before he stops himself, willing himself to perform spontaneous combustion either on his contracts or on himself, he’s not really picky which.

 

_What a novel idea._

 

Spike walks over to Angel’s desk, slowly, languidly, masking his hurt, hoping that his movements don’t give away how much pain he’s still in. He sits down, on the contract that Angel’s staring at, sending other papers flying off the desk. He leans over, close now, the scent of smoke mingling with the smell of his own blood, clinging from the morning.

 

 _No_ , Spike whispers.

 

That’s it, that’s the magic word, and he’s done it now, because Angel’s on his feet, his eyes turning, his cheeks roughening, his teeth sharpening, and he’s lunging towards him—

 

\--but Spike is ready for this, he’s been ready, and he deftly moves aside, grabs the older vampire by the shoulders and throws him against the wall. And before Angel can throw a punch, Spike’s already on him, each blow coming harder and heavier than the last, too fast for Angel to even react to, and Spike’s suddenly fine now, and he’s fighting dirty and Angel’s struggling but Spike’s grip is too strong. Spike’s livid now, growling,

 

_You know what your problem always was, Liam?_

 

Before Angel can even open his mouth, Spike slams his fist into his stomach and throat, causing Angel to slide to the floor, his vision swimming and throwing up pints of blood.

_You don’t have to answer, that was rhetorical._

 

Spike strides up beside him, grabs Angel’s hair and yanks his head to the side, neck exposed. Spike’s voice is a hiss now.

 

_But I'll tell you anyway._

 

He buries his teeth in Angel’s neck and Angel’s yelling, trying to crawl away but Spike’s holding him down and draining him, making an utter mess out of it, blood spurting everywhere.

 

_You always were a fucking hypocrite._

 

Angel can barely feel Spike’s teeth retracting but he can definitely feel his face smashing into the carpet. The first hit against the floor renders Angel’s nose shattered. The second hit cracks his jaw and the third hit almost makes him bite his tongue in half. Warm blood is now trickling through and down his throat as his head is once again pulled back, Spike’s voice at his ear.

 

_I want to remind you of what you said to me that one time. I think your exact words were…_

 

Spike drags the quickly fading Angel to the wall and props him up against it, hunches down on his legs, scrambles in his jacket for a lighter and a cigarette. He cups his hand, lights the fag and inhales. Blows it into Angel’s face, and continues, enunciating clearly.

 

_There’s no belonging…_

 

He draws his thumb across Angel’s wounded mouth, the older vampire’s eyes struggling to remain clear and open.

 

_…or deserving anymore._

 

Spike’s hand leaves bloody finger marks on Angel’s throat. Spike takes another drag and carefully sets it out on Angel’s chest. Angel’s too far gone now, doesn’t register the pain, can barely even hear what Spike’s saying. The latter smiles dryly and flicks the ash off Angel’s body.

 

_I’m sorry, am I boring you? Here, I know what will keep you entertained. It always works on me._

 

Spike grabs the now limp Angel and turns him over with slight difficulty. Angel’s facing the wall now and in one fluid motion, Spike takes off Angel’s pants and begins unbuttoning his own. His hand is curled around Angel’s neck, holding him into place, his other hand clenched around his waist.

 

_Don’t pass out on me now, old man. I know this morning tired you out but we haven’t even gotten to the fun part._

 

Spike leans into Angel and the latter groans, there’s no build-up, no slow start, Spike just mercilessly pounds into him, and Angel has never had anything inside of him like this, not even when he was with Darla, and it hurts, it hurts so fucking _bad,_ and he can feel the bile coming up again now, and he just wants to make this stop, please, please, just make this _stop_ , and he realizes that this is what he does to Spike, this is what he’s done to Spike, this is this is this is

 

good, this is _good_ , and Angel’s panting, breathing, vampires don’t _breathe_ , what is happening, what is Spike _doing_ to him, but he’s talking and he’s saying

 

He says,

 

_You can take what you want, have what you want—_

 

but Angel’s not listening because the bile’s in his throat now, and his mouth is sour and this time it’s because he doesn’t want it to stop and he should, he should, he should not be _wanting_ this, and he looks down and he sees that he’s hard and he’s drooling and he can’t close his mouth and what is that awful noise, it sounds like someone’s—

 

moaning, and oh god, it’s him, he tries to shut his mouth but he can’t, he can’t control himself, he’s pushing back and he needs more, and he can't believe he's actually begging for it, and Spike’s there, he's there for him, he’s behind him and on him and _in_ him, and then he’s

gone, he’s not there anymore and Angel is the one who’s on the floor, face down, blood dribbling out of his mouth and ass,

 

empty and Spike’s words echoing in his ears.

 

_But nothing is yours._

_Not even me._


End file.
